Grand Master Read Online Free PDF Page B

from the
sitting room. A door slid open and closed. It was an elevator, the
means by which Madelaine Constable could move quickly and easily
from whatever commotion was taking place in the first floor public
rooms to what, Hart had now determined, was her own private
sanctuary. The books that lined the shelves in all their unread
splendor, those books belonged to her.
    “Damn,” she muttered with what seemed like
quiet desperation. Holding her arms straight down at her sides, she
clenched both fists. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” she cried. She
shook her head, quickly, abruptly, as if to force herself to stop,
to get control again. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath.
Then, suddenly, she opened them with a look of consternation. She
had forgotten that Bobby Hart was there. She started to pretend
that he had not noticed what she had done, and then she gave it up.
“Yes, that’s how I feel.” Her eyes glistened with defiance. “Do you
think I wanted to stand there, spend two hours acting the grieving
widow, so that they can all talk about how brave I am, how much I
am to be admired for the way I’ve conducted myself, holding back my
emotions, holding back the tears? The truth of it is that the
hardest part has been pretending that I care at all that he’s
dead.”
    She walked across to the open doorway to the
study where Hart stood watching her. “You always knew he was a
fraud, didn’t you? Don’t bother denying it. If there is anybody in
this town who can cut through all the cheap lying, all the stupid
hypocrisy, it’s you.”
    She touched him on the arm and then moved
past him to an open cubicle in the book lined shelves where three
crystal class decanters sat on a silver tray. “Scotch?” she asked,
as she poured two glasses. She handed him a half-filled glass and
then touched hers to his. “Cheers,” she said in a voice tinged with
weary cynicism.
    She stood at the window, looking down at the
crowd. “You think any of them are talking about what a great
president he was?” She looked away, took a drink as if she were
trying to steady her nerves, and then sank into an easy chair. She
took another drink, longer, slower this time, and appeared to lose
herself in thought. A moment later, she looked up at Hart and
gestured toward the chair next to her. “I’m in some trouble, Bobby,
and you’re the only one I can think of who might be able to
help.”
    Hart barely knew her. He had never before
this had a private conversation with her. He could not think of
anything that would have made her think of him. She read his
mind.
    “You’re too modest. Or, perhaps,” she added
with a shrewd glance that made Hart cautious and a little
uncomfortable, “you’re not modest enough. You know perfectly well
that you can do a good deal more than most people around here. You
have great influence; everyone - or nearly everyone, because there
are always a certain number of idiots and fools - respects you. The
point is you know how to get things done, and, that rarest of
qualities, you have a sense of what is important and what is not.
Look out that window; look down at that crowd of well-wishers who
only wish well for themselves. Think they care anything about the
great Robert Constable now; think they cared anything about him
when he was alive, except what he might do for them? They’re all
free now, whatever they might have owed him. I’ve got the burden of
the great man’s reputation, the obligation to make sure that no one
ever finds out the truth, the whole truth, of what he really
was.”
    Hart had seen too much of politics and what
it did to people to be shocked very easily, but this was stunning,
the harsh bitterness with which she described her husband and what
his death meant for her. He was almost afraid to ask what she
wanted him to do. “You said you were in some kind of trouble. I’m
not sure I understand what you mean.”
    Madelaine Constable stared into the middle
distance, her mood changing